[COMPLETED] In which the untold story of Walburga Black unfolds.
She was a witch before she was a wife, mother, and cruel woman.
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"You failed as a mother; I failed as a son. Can you sit here truthfully, and say you love me? Look in my eyes, and s...
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Groaning, she felt the soreness in her body as she squeezed her eyes shut. Reluctantly, she opened them, only to be met by the sight of the parlor room ceiling.
Turning her head, she felt a twinge in her neck and grumbled as she sat up.
Her surroundings were dimly lit, with the soft glow of the morning sun filtering through the heavy curtains. The room was silent except for the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
She rubbed her stiff neck, trying to remember how she had ended up here. The previous night's events were a blur, but the lingering headache suggested it had been eventful.
"Feel better?" the voice spoke, drawing her attention away from her thoughts. She looked back at the floor, noticing deep scratch marks she hadn't seen before.
Her eyes widened as she took in the state of the room—cluttered and chaotic. The desk was tipped over, papers strewn everywhere, and the sofa she had been lying on was ripped apart.
"What happened?" she murmured, raising her hand towards her increasingly tangled hair.
The voice laughed menacingly. "The same thing that always happens. Lost in your memories—you drank yourself blind and had an episode."
She glanced around the room again, the chaotic scene now making sense. The remnants of broken glass and scattered empty bottles confirmed the voice's claim.
Taking a deep breath she felt the weight of regret and confusion settling over her.
"Your routine bores me to no end; even your suffering has become rather repetitive." His voice was monotone as if he had grown used to Walburga's manic episodes of waking up, wandering around her house, crying, screaming, raging, drinking fire whiskey, destroying furniture, and reliving memories of her family before passing out after screaming at him.
Walburga winced at his words, the truth in them cutting deeper than she cared to admit. She slowly stood up, her legs shaky, and began to survey the damage.
"What do you want from me?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of her breathing.
Walking out of the parlor room, she closed her eyes, seeing stars in her vision from the lack of sustenance. She had refused to eat; even when Kreacher made her favorite dishes, she turned away.
In many ways, Walburga's fight against the grief had reached its end. Her grief had won.
She stumbled down the hallway, her hand brushing against the wall for support. The once grand house felt like a mausoleum, a constant reminder of everything she had lost.
As she passed by the family portraits, their eyes seemed to follow her, judging her, or perhaps pitying her descent into despair.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the voice again, now softer but still devoid of empathy. "You can't go on like this, Walburga. Sooner or later, something has to change."
